The Exchange Ch. 15

Soon, Inka and Jorun found themselves in a fairly empty hallway, but they heard a harsh, scrubbing noise. It reminded Inka of dish washing.

The women peeked around a corner and saw a thin woman on her knees. Under those knees, there was a worn bundle of cloth that was likely used as a cushion. Near her, there was a wooden bucket of frothy water. She was using her rough hands to push a wet brush up and down the floor. Her fingernails were so short that it looked painful, and her black hair was cropped close to her head.

Jorun gave Inka a bored expression, as if she wanted to ask, "Why are you so curious about that woman?"

Inka led her away from that scrubbing woman and they walked in the opposite direction they'd originally taken. She whispered to Jorun, "Little Lataa's washing floors now."

Jorun blinked at nothing as if she'd only just then realized who that woman was. "Oh, do you suppose she'll have to wash clothes too?"

"Perhaps," Inka said. "If so, her arms might deteriorate."

"Wet clothes must be kneaded and beaten into a clean state," Jorun said as she smiled, "I haven't forgotten how troublesome that is for the muscles."

Inka remembered a time years ago when she was being punished for something. She was denied dinner for a whole week and made to stay in a corner of a room. There was a window, though, and she'd looked through it. She'd seen the maids wash clothes once, and it looked exhausting.

Boiling and stirring, squeezing and whacking, mixing and wringing, and finally arranging everything to dry. Laundry was done every two weeks or so, and a specialized laundress was always hired to come and give the maids instructions, and to help with the more difficult tasks.

That laundress clearly had to wash clothes every day from multiple clients. It was her profession. Her body had seemed nearly destroyed, like a precious book that had been exposed to a rainstorm.

Lataa wouldn't have to do laundry every day, but she had other chores too. She'd have to dust and polish various things, sweep indoor and outdoor floors, beat dirt out of rugs, repair torn clothing, and pray every single day, among other important tasks.

There was no shame in doing any of these things, hard work had its own form of glory. Still, Lataa was once a coddled princess, and unlike the other low level priestesses who shared her rank, she wouldn't be allowed any promotions no matter how pleased the higher priestesses were.

All the other maid-like priestesses had a good chance to earn better positions that often came a higher salary, nicer food, and more free time. But Lataa had no chances for that. Strict orders from her brother. She wouldn't even receive a salary. She was essentially a slave. The Royal Palace would send money every month to pay for Lataa's food and likely meager accommodations, but anything leftover would belong to the temple.

Such was the fate of that former princess. The only reason she hadn't lost her head was because of her blood relation to the Emperor. Familial bonds often inspired pity and leniency.

***

A soft, naturally tanned hand with quite a few golden rings folded several letters together. Then the letters were put on a small round table.

"Mama!!"

A small amount of brown hair was allowed to peek out from the lace and gemstone border of the red velvet cap. The dark eyes were tired from reading, but still alert. They turned to a small boy in a simple but well-made dark blue gown.

Little boys tended to wear gowns and dresses until they reached a certain age. Children grew so quickly, and skirts were easier to alter than breeches. It was also easier to teach a tiny toddler boy how to use a chamber pot when he had a skirt instead of breeches with complex ties and buttons. This little boy was long past that stage, but he was still considered too young for breeches.

"Yes, Sigvahd? What is it?"

They were inside the castle, next to a few small windows that gave an honest try at giving them sunlight. Jaya was sitting in a comfortable chair with lovely cushions. Near her, her attendant was working on some light sewing.

Sigvahd, the little boy who looked so much like Jaya, ran up to her and showed her a doll made of cloth. "Look at what Nanny made! Isn't it pretty?!"

Jaya petted his cheek and told him it was beautiful. Then she put her hands on his waist and settled him on her lap. "There's news from your Uncle Nitishila," she said to her prince.

"Oh. That's nice." There wasn't much care in his tone. He waved the doll's face up before Jaya's eyes. "What should I name my doll?"

Gently, Jaya lowered the doll, which lowered the boy's arm in the process. "That matters little to me, Child. Now listen well. You should know what goes on with your family on the other side of the world."

Sigvahd pouted and wriggled in her lap, but he at least pretended to listen.

"My marriage to your father was been very peaceful, wouldn't you say?"

Sigvahd shrugged. He was a well loved boy, the center of his father's world. That's all he cared about.

Jaya adjusted the little cap on his head. "Things have been more precarious over in Gehna. Only recently has your Aunt Inka given birth to children, and before that she was heavily criticized for it, even called a Life Eater. Meanwhile, your Aunt Lataa has confessed to being a traitor, and now she'll live the rest of her life as a slave to a temple." Her fingertip caressed her son's jawline. "That should serve as a firm lesson to you. Never betray your country."

Tugging on one of his doll's arms, the boy said, "I don't need to learn that lesson. I love my country." In truth, he was just a child repeating things he'd been told. He didn't know enough about his country to love it. He couldn't. He was still so young.

Jaya held him closer and kissed his cheek. He didn't resist. He loved kisses from his mother, his father too. She then put him back on the stone floor and told him to go back to his play.

The next generation was here.

Jaya smiled and silently thanked the gods.

***

The End

Thank you so much for reading.